I am walking once more through the cool purple shade
Where I left behind hours of earlier years.
Scattered there, they have rooted and flowered,
To seed dappled spaces of silk where the foliage clears
And the rainforest filters the warm rays of truth.
Years ago, as a curious child, I explored the tall groves,
Well-marked pathways that twisted and flowed
Into goldenrod fields where, bare-chested and warm,
I could run, nostrils tingling with the freshly-pressed
Wine of summer. I opened my mind to these paths
And the star, the hot star I believed to be truth,
Burned its mark smartly through every layer of my being.
Now, as I retrace my way,
The leafmold gives beneath my feet,
The meadows somehow have been bridged with profusity,
The sweet pollen laced with musk.
Has this forest grown up or have I? Did the truth
That I knew as a child end with summer, or does
Winter light bend through prisms of time to diffuse
The hot white into cool shades unnamed in our youth?
These are the questions I pose now, mature and assured,
With no father to answer in blacks and in whites.
I'm alone in the forest, the paths are obscured,
And even if I find the clearing I seek,
The hot star that lights it may prove to be
Just another chemical reaction.
There may be no special emission.